Sweet Pea
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: Irene, too late to inflict revenge on Sherlock Holmes, picks someone else to hurt. The girl who comes to his grave is nothing remarkable, but she'd meant something to him. Or, failing that, he'd meant something to her. So Irene chooses her, pretends for her, and sets her up for a fall.
1. Plan B

**For the fifth 'Let's Write Sherlock' on Tumblr, prompt being minor characters pretending to be together.**

**Warnings: Abusive relationship, Molly/Irene.**

* * *

It began as revenge.

Irene was good at revenge. It had been part of the job, part of a delicious role-play planned and set out and _paid _for by a customer who wouldn't forget her name (or the bruises on their arms) for a long time. Her job was to play pretend with bored adults, and she liked doing it.

She wanted revenge on Sherlock Holmes, not because he'd toyed with her affections – although god knew, that was true enough – but because he thought he'd beaten her. He'd been so convinced he'd got the upper hand, for good, that he'd come back to return a favour. And much as Irene appreciated having her head, she couldn't stand for that. She couldn't let him go on thinking he'd beaten her forever, and she couldn't go on thinking that she'd been beaten. So she'd do what she did best; play pretend.

Being dead had its advantages. She could get around London fairly easily, thanks to a hasty change in hair colour and a different taste in clothing, because no-one was really looking for her. She debated long and hard about going to see him, unsure whether to sit there and make him squirm just by talking to him, or slide a knife between his ribs and watch his eyes widen in surprise. Perhaps neither. Perhaps both.

But she'd learned caution, and it was caution that was her undoing. She waited too long, planned too carefully, and the next thing she knew she was reading the newspaper with her rosy fingernails hooked into a picture of a very bloody pavement and a blurry shot of John Watson being led away. If she had any doubts as to the reality of the suicide, the look on his face was enough to convince her. No-one could fake that amount of internal agony, and John was no actor. He was – had been – a pet, and a loyal one at that, and he looked like he'd lost his entire world.

Sherlock may have been gone, but Irene had options. She had John, she had the policeman with the silver hair, and she had the Ice Man and the old lady with bright smile. She had a lot of people to choose from. The problem was that all the people who Sherlock Holmes had cared about were the ones who know about her. Revenge hovered, like an unfulfilled promise, unsatisfied.

The girl who came to Sherlock's gravestone was nothing remarkable. Her hair was lank and frizzy on top, and her jumper only worth taking notice of because it was so old it was falling apart at elbows. Irene, always well-dressed, found herself at the edge of laughter when she saw her. And this woman, this _girl_, came to Sherlock's grave, stood there for a few moments with her lips pressed together, and left again. Irene had never seen her before, but she'd meant something to Sherlock Holmes. Or, failing that, he'd meant something to her. And she'd never seen Irene's face.

Revenge yawned, stretched, and sniffed the air.

Following her home was easy. Finding out more about her was easier – her blog was the most sickening thing Irene had read in a long time. Molly Hooper, unassuming pathologist. Low self-esteem. Crush on Sherlock Holmes, to judge by the earlier entries. Easy to manipulate. She was perfect, apart from the fact Irene knew Sherlock had never looked twice at her, not romantically. But still; she would do.

Irene dyed her hair back to its natural black before going to meet Molly face to face, and she styled it neatly, curling it into neutral-looking waves and pinning it up so it appeared short. She debated on wearing a suit, but decided the comparison would be too obvious. A black dress did nicely. Blue scarf – elegant, the sort of thing worn to a formal event, although a different shade to his. Tights. Neutral makeup. She had the cheekbones for it, at least.

When she knocked on Molly's door, she knew she looked as much like Sherlock Holmes as it was possible to be, and it showed. Molly blinked at her dumbly, her mouth open just enough to show surprise. She had nice teeth; a little bit of an overbite, just the right amount. It almost made up for the fact she was wearing slippers with holes in them.

"Can I help you?"

She was very trusting. Irene liked that. It made revenge so much easier.

"This isn't the Miller's?"

Molly blinked. "No, I'm sorry. I don't think there's anyone in these flats called that…"

There wasn't. Irene had checked before she got there.

"Oh, that is such a pain. I'm sorry for bothering you."

"That's…um…no problem." Molly smiled; it fell awkwardly off her lips, like she was dribbling water.

"It's just…" Irene said, rummaging in her delicate black bag and pulling out a phone she'd carefully chosen to look like Sherlock's, although it was significantly cheaper. "I sent my cab back. And it's dark out already."

"Do you…d'you want t-to wait here?"

"You wouldn't mind?"

Molly looked uncertain. "I…I…"

Irene remembered Sherlock's lack of manners, his total ineptitude when it came to compliments, to romance. She wondered if she should recreate that, should invite herself into Molly's flat; insult her wallpaper and hair in the same breath. She wondered if that was the sort of thing Molly liked.

And then she thought of the blog. The pink – baby pink, rosy pink – pastel colours. The glaring insecurity. And she understood; Molly had had a crush on Sherlock Holmes and she'd wanted out of him something she was never going to get. The way she'd offered her home, the way she rose automatically on her tiptoes to be closer to Irene's height, not because she felt threatened by her – she wasn't leaning away – but because she wanted to compromise with her. She wanted to please people, and she wanted to be praised for it.

So Irene smiled, entered Molly's flat quietly, told her the colour of the curtains was her favourite and complemented her on both her hair and her profession – a _pathologist_, how interesting. And Molly fluttered and giggled and introduced Irene to her cat, a tubby thing Irene hated but cooed over lovingly. She pretended she loved cats. She'd pretend anything. She moved in an upright, brisk way, like Sherlock, but she allowed herself to get close. She gave Molly something, some base affection, to work with, and Molly lapped it up faster than her cat lapped up the water in its bowl.

By the time she left, supposedly to go to her party, she had Molly showing her out with something close to regret. She hovered on the doorway, in her ragged slippers and with her hair all over her face, and opened her mouth. Irene stopped, keeping her arms down, making sure her body language was open. Listening.

"I…I was wondering." Molly swallowed. Her cheeks were red. "I was w-wondering if…if you…"

"Yes?"

Molly hovered on the edge for a moment, and then retreated again. She shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

"If there's anything I can do…"

"It doesn't matter."

Irene smiled as the door closed. She'd hardly expected to get a phone number the first time.

* * *

Irene waited just the right amount of time before taking her revenge to the next stage. She left it long enough for Molly to have calmed her nerves and begun to feel regretful about not saying what she'd considered saying on the doorstep, but not long enough for her to forget the whole thing, or have convinced herself it didn't matter. Three weeks was enough time for Irene to know Molly would feel _grateful_ about running into her again.

The supermarket was crowded for a Sunday, the day Molly went every week to get her food. Irene was glad she wasn't one of those people who hopped from supermarket to supermarket on a whim; it would have been very tiresome to have to drive to all of them behind Molly's bus. It gave her time to get herself a basket and half-fill it before they bumped into each other in what looked like a complete accident but was, in fact, carefully planned, right to the very aisle it was done in; a soap and perfume aisle, clean and fresh. Nothing gruesome like dead fish or lumps of meat in vacuum packs to distract Molly's attention.

As Irene, her hair pulled into a sharp but stylish bun, wearing a shirt and smart skirt, deliberately snagged a bottle of shampoo with her sleeve as she supposedly reached for the top shelf. It hit the floor with a clatter, and as she bent to pick it up a hand touched her own. Molly, already in the aisle when she'd turned for the shelf, had been the first and only person to duck and help her. Of course she had. Irene had expected nothing less.

"Here you-oh!" Molly sounded both surprised and pleased. _Grateful_. "Oh, it's you. I…I don't suppose you remember, sorry, I'll…just…"

"I do remember," Irene said softly. "I never did say thank you properly." She had said thank you, several times, but it was a good way of opening the conversation. "Molly, right? How's your cat?"

Molly blinked. "He's…f-fine, he's fine. Toby's fine." She smiled nervously. Her hand was still clasping the bottle of shampoo; they were still kneeling in the aisle. And for someone as self-conscious as Molly not to have noticed the fact, well…she must have been mesmerised. "How…how are y-you?"

"I'm well," Irene said. "I'm doing my shopping, then I'm going for a coffee."

"Oh. Me too. Doing the shopping I mean. Not the coffee. Although, I like coffee. Coffee's…um…good."

Irene resisted the urge to grit her teeth in irritation at the stumbling and stuttering. Molly was her target; she needed to at least pretend she could stand to be with her.

"That's nice." Irene got to her feet, putting her basket onto the other arm. "Did you drive here?"

If Molly thought the question was an odd one, she didn't mention it. "No. I t-take the bus. Most of the time. Sometimes I get a cab, if it's raining, or, or icy, but the bus is less, well, less expensive and I…" Irene saw Molly's throat bob as she tried to contain her nervous energy. It radiated off her like heat. "I took the bus."

"Well, I can offer you a lift, if you like," Irene said, selecting a soap at random and putting it in her basket. "There's a lovely little coffee shop two streets down from your flat. I could drop you off on the way there, save you the walk."

"Oh, I couldn't…I don't want to p-put you out of your way."

"It's no trouble," Irene said, knowing Molly would say yes even though Irene could be anyone, because she was insecure enough to be terrified of appearing rude. Ten minutes later Molly was in her car, shopping piled on the backseats, chattering about the one subject she seemed to be able to talk about without mangling the words beyond recognition – her work. Twenty minutes later they were drinking coffee at a little place Irene had carefully selected and surveyed the day before. Molly complained that they'd put too much milk in hers, but didn't have the courage to tell any of the people behind the counter, so Irene spooned some of her black coffee into Molly's cup and stirred it for her, smiling all the time.

"So…" Molly said, blowing on her drink. Her hands hadn't stopped shaking all the time they'd been talking, but her cheeks weren't quite as red; more of a pleasing pink, like she'd walked into a warm room. "What do you do? For work, I mean."

"I don't do anything at the moment," Irene replied. "Some volunteer work, some freelance things. It's not very interesting."

"Oh, I-I'm sure it is…"

"It really isn't."

Molly dropped the question, and Irene steered the topic away. She'd given Molly a fake last name – Adams – just in case she decided to start tapping what she knew into the internet. She'd come up blank, but it wouldn't worry her; not everyone brought up a result, even these days. Being at the heart of a scandal that had almost brought down a government had advantages; every trace of her previous business had been wiped. Molly wouldn't know, because England wanted to forget Irene Adler. If someone discovered the records, it would be embarrassing for them. So, as soon as she was dead, they'd got rid of her, as if she were a stain to be wiped off a smooth surface.

"It was nice meeting you again," Irene said, when it became clear, as they got ready to pay their bill, that Molly wasn't going to pluck up the courage to say it herself.

"Yes. I…I had a nice…time."

"You know, you were talking about pet insurance, and I know some good websites for that kind of thing. Comparison sites. I could email you, if you like."

So, after one cup of coffee, Irene had Molly's email address. A week later she had her mobile number. Two weeks after that, when they'd had two coffee meetings and a walk together, Irene asked Molly if she wanted to have dinner. She made her intentions clear, but un-pushy; she threw in one or two compliments along the way, and talking about 'how fortunate' it had been that they'd met in the supermarket helped to tip the scale. Irene knew it will remind Molly of the three weeks she'd spent regretting not saying something on the doorstep.

Molly said yes.

* * *

**Looks like I'm at it again, uploading two fics at once. I've wanted to do a Molly/Irene story for ages, and the prompt gave me the perfect opportunity (although it was hell to get done in the time limit, believe me).**

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	2. Phase 2

Their first date was a disaster, despite the easy, neutral location Irene had deliberately chosen in the hope of setting Molly's mind at ease. Molly started it by knocking soup into both their laps as she reached for the butter and ended it with a shaking, almost desperate confession that she'd never really been into girls before now, and that was ignoring the hundred other little mishaps in-between. Most people would have given up before the date was half-over, but Irene wiped the soup off the both of them with her handkerchief, insisted the dress was an old one anyway, and told Molly they could go slowly if she preferred. That if she decided it wasn't what she wanted, that was alright. No hard feelings.

It was the kindness she showed that got Molly so thoroughly under her thumb. Sherlock hadn't cared romantically for the little pathologist with a crush on him, but he hadn't hated her either. If he had, he would have taken her from the inside, paid her back every little compliment, let her grow close. Molly was tough – she had bad luck, she had to be tough – impossible to touch with hard words and hatred. But kindness stuck to her like honey.

Irene couldn't re-create all his mannerisms, but she could duplicate other things. Like brilliance, and danger. She even learned about science, played around with words she knew Molly would recognise. She was Sherlock, only she was perfect in all the ways Molly wanted. And it allowed her, in the space of a single date, to hook herself into Molly's life so tightly she was surprised she didn't wince.

* * *

"Oh. Y-you're early."

Irene, standing on the doorstep with her black skirt cutting into the back of her knees, resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She smiled instead. Her mouth was getting sore from smiling, but every time she did Molly smirked and fluttered and rose on her tiptoes in giddy compliance.

"You said half-six."

"It's…it's only half-five." Molly looked at her watch, and tapped it. "Damn. I haven't…I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I haven't got anything r-ready yet."

Molly was looking like her world was turning to dust, so Irene leaned down and touched her hand, very softly, and came into her flat without being invited, because Molly was clearly too mortified to ask her in. Her chest was itching with irritation; the girl was hopeless. It was annoying. But the smile stayed in place, because Irene needed it to be there.

"It doesn't matter. We can order something."

Molly's eyes were glistening; she looked ready to cry from frustration, if not embarrassment. Half-chopped arrays of vegetables littered her countertops.

"I messed up, I'm s-sorry, I never meant…and I've ruined it…"

"Don't be silly," Irene said brusquely, her eyes scanning the kitchen. She could tell that takeaway wasn't going to be enough to convince Molly that she hadn't ruined the evening. If Irene could pull the whole thing out of the gutter, Molly wouldn't only be grateful; she'd be confident enough to let Irene into her apartment again. Irene needed that. "We can have a salad."

Molly rubbed at her eyes, attempting, clumsily, to make it discreet – she pulled her sleeve over her thumb and tried to look like she was only scratching her nose. "What?"

Irene wasn't a big fan of cooking, but she knew enough to scratch together a meal of some sort. Molly had already done all the chopping. If she was lucky, it might even look a bit like science; the mixing and testing, arranging everything neatly on round little plates.

"You've got carrots, celery, potatoes – we can have salad."

Molly smiled.

* * *

Three hours later they'd polished off the makeshift dinner, the pudding Molly had pre-prepared, and two bottles of wine. Or rather, Molly had polished off two bottles of wine. Irene hadn't had more than a glass; this was her game, and she had to remain sober whilst playing it.

"God, I'm drunk," Molly murmured, for the fourth time. She had her head resting on the heel of her hand, elbow propped on the table, cheeks bright red. Irene was waiting for her to fall asleep so she could get things sorted and leave.

"I know you are. Bad practice, to get drunk on the second date."

"S'not really a proper date." Molly giggled. "Because…because _I _screwed it up." She sounded a lot happier about the fact than she had done three hours ago. Her chin slipped off her hand and her whole body jolted as she tried to stop her head smacking into the table, only semi-successfully. "Ow…"

"You should go to bed," Irene said, taking advantage of Molly being slumped forward in her chair to stand up and worm an arm around the small of her back. "Come on."

Molly muttered something nonsensical. Irene smiled; although her intention hadn't particularly been to get Molly drunk – she'd managed that well enough by herself, her hands trembling every time she'd lifted the glass to her lips – it worked to her advantage. People felt vulnerable after getting drunk with someone, one-to-one. It would bring Molly closer, so long as she was handled it correctly.

"Bedroom through here?" Irene asked, more out of habit than in the hope Molly would be able to tell her anything useful. She pushed open a door and found only a bathroom.

"Nope," Molly replied; her frantically nervous giggles were slurred and messy, and her hair had escaped from the neat bun she'd had it in and was tickling Irene's nose. "S'not there."

"Where is it then?"

"No idea."

Irene wanted to sneeze, but she forced out a laugh instead, even though there was a high chance Molly wouldn't remember anything in the morning. Better safe than sorry.

"It's your bloody bedroom."

She found it after dragging Molly past a few more doors, somehow hauled the two of them inside in one piece, and deposited Molly inelegantly on the bed. The room was untidy, littered with dirty clothes and half-open books with bent spines and pages. The cat, shut away for the evening, glared at her balefully from the top of the wardrobe, where he was curled on a stack of towels like a gargoyle. As Molly was lying on her face, Irene took the opportunity to glower back at him for a few seconds.

"Neverhadbef-…now…"

"What was that?" Irene said sweetly, trying to ignore the yellow eyes boring into her back as she gently removed Molly's cardigan. Nothing more; she didn't want to scare her out of meeting again. She whisked one of the towels out of the pile, taking satisfaction in making the cat shoot out from his comfortable spot and land with a thump on the floor.

"Never had a girl…in here. Before now."

"Well, that's not-"

"You remind me of someone…"

Irene, in the process of tucking the towel around Molly's chest and shoulders, felt her fingers stiffen.

"Someone dead. No." Molly pushed herself up on her elbows, frowning. "_Two _dead people."

"Two?"

The room was quiet for a few seconds; Irene could hear the cat growling in the kitchen.

"One of them was a man. Not that I think you're a man." Molly sighed. "Not that being a man is a bad thing. Or _not _being a man is a bad thing. Or something in-between." She flopped back down with a snicker. "Now I'm screwing it all up again."

"No you're not," Irene murmured, re-adjusting the towel. "Who else?"

"Long time ago. He came to the morgue to see her. She had hair a bit like yours. Same height. But the face." Molly screwed her nose up and rolled on her side. Her hair, stuck to the duvet, stayed in the same place, forming a bizarre-looking mask of brown waves. "Wasn't anything left of it."

Irene could feel her throat growing sticky with apprehension. "That must have been…bad…"

"M'used to it. Part of the job. You go numb to it all, in the end. Apart from the kids. Never quite get over the kids."

Molly's mouth, when Irene pulled away her hair and tucked it neatly around her so it wouldn't stick to her teeth during the night, was downturned and sad-looking, like an irregular tear in an envelope opened too quickly. Irene felt something twinge at the back of her mind as she looked at her. She was so hopeless, so lonely, so desperate for someone to listen to her – no doubt why she kept such a foul item of a cat – that she'd let Irene get so close to her, so quickly.

Molly had fallen asleep quietly enough for Irene not to have noticed. She didn't snore, didn't even breathe heavily; as if, through the years, her personality had wormed out of her any habit that other people might find annoying.

Irene left a note thanking Molly for a 'lovely time', making it impeccably clear that she wanted to meet again; that she didn't mind Molly getting drunk, or the badly prepared food. As soon as she was out of the oppressive cosiness of the flat revenge, re-awoken by the bite of the wind on her bare neck and hands, took its place again at the forefront of her mind. She'd never considered that the girl coming to visit Sherlock's grave would have been close enough to him to have been there the first time she'd pretended to be dead. She was thankful that she'd taken the precaution of a false surname, and she was even more thankful that Molly, like everyone else, was overworked. She saw a lot of bodies, and remembering the exact names of every one of them was probably impossible. Still, the closeness of the thing made her shudder in her warm, expensive coat.

Molly wasn't stupid. Given time and a better view of Irene naked – bodies were always naked on the slab – it was possible she could work it out. The plan, already rocketing forward at a rate Irene hadn't bargained on, needed to be taken up a notch, as soon as possible. She knew she needed to get into a position where Molly took everything she said as gospel, so, should the thought of the body of the woman at Christmas come to mind again, she would be able to squash it with no trouble.

She asked the taxi to stop at a chemist, spent a couple of minutes pursuing the shelves, and left with her cheeks warm and her heart cold, pushing a small bottle into her pocket as she slipped through the doors.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	3. Phase 3 - Foundation

**Warnings: Description of vomiting.**

* * *

The dates steadily improved. Molly, seemingly boosted by the fact Irene had put up with her drunk almost the point of unconsciousness, was more willing than ever to meet her. They went to the cinema, and to the park. They played crazy golf. Slowly, Irene stopped dreading the thought of having to sit and listen to whatever blundering speech Molly would give, and began almost to look forward to it; every date, every cup of coffee or bite of hotdog, was bringing her closer to revenge. But there was a small part of her, a part that usually kept quiet until she was actually stepping out of her front door, that found Molly…good company. Sweet, in a cloying, slightly clingy way. She wasn't boring, at any rate. And it was nice to be adored; nice to know that, of all the people entering a restaurant, it was her who made Molly's eyes light up. It was like having a very entertaining breed of puppy; a novelty.

She had to wait until Molly suggested another meal at her flat to put her plan into action, and even in the reasonably familiar setting she was constantly on edge. It was risky, horribly risky, but she had a tight desperation constantly tugging at her chest that told her, repeatedly, that if she let the length of revenge run too long she'd get discovered, or worse, start growing attached. The time for caution had passed.

Molly made a meal far superior to the last, not that it would have been hard, and Irene waited until she excused herself to nip to the loo and feed the cat, who was wailing in a horribly grating manner in the kitchen. As soon as the bolt slid home on the toilet door, Irene got to her feet, slipped the vial out of her pocket, long nails clinking on the plastic, quickly ripped the top out and tipped about a third of the contents into Molly's glass. She'd chosen her wine gift carefully, a heavy red that didn't match the meal, but, to judge from the bottles Irene had seen in Molly's fridge on their previous in-date, it was far stronger than she was used to. It would cover the taste of the ipecac. She was also prepared in other senses; she was wearing an old, slightly frayed cardigan and a dress she'd never particularly liked. She wouldn't be wanting to wear them after this was over.

Irene wasn't one for other people's vomit, but it was the best idea she'd had in a long time. If she had to put up with holding Molly's hair over a bucket for a couple of days, she would. It was all pretend, really. She'd convinced herself that was enough.

Molly resumed her meal with the quiet, bubbling chatter she'd developed somewhere around their fourth date. It was more bearable, if a little rambling, than her usual stuttering. Irene sometimes found it rather pleasing.

"What was I saying?"

Irene quickly pushed the last of her lamb into her mouth – shame to waste it – before plucking something reasonably plausible out of the air. "You were telling me about your Aunt."

"Oh. Yes. It's not a very funny story really, only she and her husband went on a holiday and both of them ended up with broken arms. He had to drive whilst she moved the gearstick. That's all."

Irene smiled. "I had something like that happen to my parents when I was a kid; my mum dislocated her shoulder doing a dancing class. On the same day, my dad tripped and sprained his ankle. People thought they must have been in a car accident."

The story was a true one, and it brought her back to her childhood with a jolt; sitting in the doctor's waiting room with both of them, and neighbour after nurse coming up to them and asking when the smash had happened. She allowed herself to get lost for a moment – she hadn't thought of her parents, both of them dead now, in a long time – until a clink tore the memory apart. Molly had picked up her wine glass. The red liquid briefly filled the sections of her lips where her lipstick had rubbed away, and then she swallowed, and the illusion was gone. Irene pretended to keep eating, although she didn't put anything in her mouth. The last thing she wanted was to have to swallow once Molly…

Molly put a hand to her lips, wiping them with her fingertips. She looked pale. Her throat worked so quickly even Irene almost missed it, and a second later she'd thrown up. She managed to avoid the table, which Irene was glad of, but spattered most of the rug with lumps of food, swimming in the other half of her wine. Irene wrinkled her nose and then fixed a surprised-but-not-outraged look to her face as Molly looked at her, pressing both her hands to her face as her throat worked a second time.

"Oh god." Her voice was hoarse and muffled, but Irene, already on her feet, was close enough to hear. "Shit, I was f-fine, I was feeling fine I…" She retched again. Irene took her by the arm and manoeuvred her to the bathroom in time to send the next projectiles into the toilet rather than onto the floor.

"Maybe you're allergic to something," she murmured, taking Molly's loose hair and pushing it into the collar of her shirt.

Molly gagged. "I'm not, I've had all that stuff before, I swear it…oh god…I'm sorry, I'm s-so sorry…"

Amazing, how one little thing could push Molly so easily from her semi-confident state back to her stuttering. Vulnerable. Irene's fingernail brushed the nape of her neck as she got the last of the hair out of the way.

"You must be poorly."

"But it's so-" Molly broke off again. Her face had gone from white to grey. "Sudden…"

"I'll get you some water," Irene said briskly, remembering the instructions on the side of the vial; follow with at least one glass of water. Only to be used in extreme circumstances.

She nipped through to the kitchen, picking up Molly's wineglass on the way, and hastily washed and refilled it. The bathroom, when she returned, smelt acrid, making her nostrils flare. Molly had one arm pressed against the floor and the other braced against the toilet lid, muttering to herself as her throat bobbed and her eyes watered.

"What was that?" Irene asked innocently, pressing the glass onto her.

"Nothing, nothing…you can go, if you l-like…" She swallowed water and grimaced. "I k-keep screwing it up, I don't expect you to st-stay."

"I'll stay."

Molly, already on the verge of tears, looked ready to throw her arms around her. Until now she'd been very distant when it came to physical contact, not doing much more than allowing Irene to take her hand every now and then, but now she looked clingy, like a lost child. Irene gently put an arm around her shoulders.

"I want to make sure you're alright."

Molly sniffed, sipping at the glass until it was almost empty. Her gagging had eased off as quickly as it had started, but her forehead was damp and sticky, dripping onto her collar as Irene helped her to her feet, toward the bed.

"A-are you sure? I don't have anywhere for you to stay…"

"It doesn't matter. So long as you're alright."

"I'm sorry."

"Shh." Irene gently eased Molly under the covers and handed her a thin-looking nightdress she found on the back of a chair. "I'll be back in a second; do you have a bucket?"

"Under the sink. You don't have to-"

"I know. I want to. I care about you."

Irene left Molly to change, found the bucket and turned the central heating up to full. The look Molly had given her when she'd said she'd cared – like a dog that'd been offered food for the first time in days – was fixed firmly in her mind.

* * *

**I looked at several different sites about i****pecac and got mixed information; some said that it wasn't sold in chemists, others that it was easily available over-the-counter. For the sake of the story I decided to go with the latter.**

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued.**


	4. Phase 3 - Follow Through

"I'm sorry, I can't come in. I've been throwing up all weekend, I'm all shaky and hot," Molly croaked into the phone. Irene, standing in the kitchen and holding the thermometer a little way from the kettle, allowed herself a smile. The flat was like a sauna but Molly, feeling too ill to move often from her bed, hadn't noticed. She hadn't even noticed that Irene was stripped down to only a t-shirt and light trousers, which she'd brought over from her own apartment on the Saturday, when Molly hadn't looked to be getting any better.

Of course she hadn't been feeling better. Irene had made sure of it. A little of the ipecac every few hours had given her a perfect excuse to stay, but the voice of caution at the back of her mind had reminded her of the label; taking it too often could, apparently, play merry hell with someone's internal organs, and she needed Molly reasonably functional for at least the next few weeks. Although, not the next few days.

The thermometer nicely warmed, she slipped two of the travel sickness tablets she'd bought on her way to get a change of clothes into Molly's tea and carried the lot through to the bedroom. Molly looked up from her mobile and sighed.

"Work."

"You couldn't have gone in. You might have thrown up on someone's corpse."

Molly snorted. Her face was pale and pinched. "Is it hot in here, or is it just me?"

"I think it's just you," Irene said sweetly, putting the tea on the table and pressing the thermometer to Molly's head before she could get a chance to look at it. "I'm taking your temperature, just in case."

Molly sat back on the various cushions and pillows she'd accumulated over the past two days with a sigh. "You don't have to stay."

"You say that every ten minutes, and yet, here I am. What a strange world we live in."

Molly laughed. She was getting colour in her cheeks again – probably the heat and layers of blankets Irene had provided her with – and her eyes were bright. She was starting to feel better, even if her throat was sore. She hadn't thrown up in several hours. Soon she'd be saying she needed to get back to work.

Irene wasn't going to let that happen. She pulled the thermometer away, checked it, and offered it to Molly.

"A hundred and two?" Molly said softly, blinking. "God, I didn't realise it was that bad…I thought it was just throwing up…"

Irene pressed the tea into her hands. "You should keep drinking."

Molly complacently took a sip. She gave no indication she tasted anything odd, and Irene let her shoulders relax as she got to her feet.

"Can I use your shower? I haven't washed in days, my hair's like a bird's nest."

"Mine's worse," Molly chuckled, drinking her tea more quickly. "You need to pull it out to turn it on; left for cold, right for hot. There's a towel on top of the wardrobe."

Irene spent a good twenty minutes in the shower, giving Molly time to finish her tea as well as taking the opportunity to scrub the lingering smell of vomit off her skin. Molly's shampoo reeked of marshmallows, over-sweet and cloying, but her conditioner was lemon. A strange mixture. Perhaps she'd just bought whatever was on offer.

By the time she'd dried and dressed herself and made her way back to the bedroom the mug of tea was empty and Molly was settled on her pillows again, one hand tucked underneath her head and the other one absently reaching down to stroke Toby, who rubbed against it, chest rumbling. Irene had been feeding him, an act which, if nothing else, made him glare at her less every time she entered a room. As she hung the towel over the door he abandoned Molly's fingers and came to twirl around her ankles.

"He's getting used to you already," Molly murmured. Irene picked him up, willing herself not to wince, and put him on the end of the bed, where he promptly took the hint and went to sleep. Irene perched next to him, pretending to stroke his ears and all the time keeping her eyes on Molly, waiting to see if the pills had taken effect. They were supposed to work within half an hour, and although they only said they 'might' cause drowsiness she was hoping the double dose would do the trick.

Toby twitched in his sleep. Molly continued to blink slowly, saying less and less, until Irene gently shuffled up the bed and tapped her on the shoulder. The temperature in the flat was growing unbearable, especially with the heat of the shower still clinging to her skin and Molly, swaddled in blankets, was beginning to look uncomfortable.

"Are you alright?"

"Mmm."

"You look a bit feverish."

Molly reached up and touched a hand to Irene's head, lazily pushing her fingers into her loose hair. "It looks nice when it's wet."

"You think so?"

"Mmmmm. I mean, all of you looks nice, pretty much all the time." Molly laughed sleepily. The pills, as Irene had hoped, had made her dopey, rather than putting her completely out. The more confused she was, the better. "You're so beautiful."

Irene blinked. It was spoken so sincerely, so suddenly, that she was taken aback. For a second Molly, with her sleepy eyes and her honest, pretty mouth, gave her again that twinge of sympathy.

Mentally, she shook herself. She knew she was beautiful; she'd made her living from it. She didn't need Molly, of all people, to compliment her.

She smiled. Molly smiled back, lowered her hand to Irene's arm and gently gave it a pull.

"Lie down. You look tired."

"I'm not. Your sofa's pretty comfortable."

"Please."

Irene, still off-balance, but perfectly aware that this was exactly what she needed to draw Molly in, allowed herself to be pulled down. Gently, she hooked an arm around Molly's shoulders, head on her elbow. She smelled lightly of sweat and tea; nothing Irene couldn't handle. She was in control, she told herself; she was always in control, and she always would be.

"You shouldn't really be here," Molly murmured. "You don't want to catch it."

Irene, feeling her heart beginning to twitch, let her fingernails dig into Molly's shoulder, trying, through the material of her pyjamas, to hurt her.  
"Oh, I don't think there's much chance of that."

* * *

Irene kept Molly in her pill-drowsed state for the next three days, giving herself enough time, when Molly was sleeping, to bring across more clothes, some of her books, her toiletries. She fed the cat, got fresh food; put damp cloths on Molly's forehead with one hand turned up the temperature with the other. When Molly's mobile rang she answered it for her and told her colleagues she was too ill to come in. When they asked who she was she said she was Molly's girlfriend. Molly wasn't in any state to tell her to say anything otherwise. The voice at the other end sounded surprised.

Of course there were still things to do once Molly was better. She had to rush back and catch up on a workload, so Irene stayed to cook dinner a few times, just to 'make sure' she stayed well. And then, of course, she had to shop to replace the things she'd used. And, when Molly did get back, it was perfectly natural to curl up on the sofa and watch something, perhaps have a drink or two, at which point Irene would make a vague, reluctant suggestion about going back and Molly would press her to stay. After two days of this Irene spilled her drink 'accidentally' onto the sofa and soaked it through. It was well past midnight. Molly invited her to share her bed.

In the end Irene, always back before Molly even finished work, was given the spare key. More of her things migrated to the flat. By the end of the month they were nestled together in domestic bliss. And Molly, even when her workload eased off, couldn't find it in her heart to complain. Irene had known she wouldn't; she was still too desperate, too insecure, to risk losing her.

"Do you think…do you think it's going a little bit fast?"

Irene, hand clamped tightly around Molly's as they stood in the fresh cold of the street, turned to look at her. Her week of 'sickness' had made her thinner than she should have been, and her jumper bagged hopelessly around her stomach and underarms.

"It's just…people don't usually do this. Move in together after…well…"

Irritation throbbed in Irene's chest; she wondered if anyone had been saying anything to Molly and, if they had, who they were. "I've still got my flat. I can move out again, if you want…"

"No! No, I don't want you to. I was j-just saying. If hadn't got ill…"

Irene wondered if Molly had worked out, then decided she couldn't have; her attention was wandering again. To her, this wasn't a game. She had no reason to be suspicious.

They walked along the frosty pavement, glancing into windows every now and then. Molly liked charity shops and Irene preferred upmarket dress stores, but both of them were reasonably lenient with the other; Irene because she couldn't afford to scare Molly off, and Molly because she was naturally tolerant of other people's tastes. A car rattled past, throwing mud up onto Irene's coat, and by the time she'd finished glaring at the driver she realised Molly had come to a stop outside a jewellery store and was looking in the window.

"I didn't know you wore much jewellery," Irene said, slipping into place next to her.

"I don't really – can't with my job. But it's nice to look, sometimes."

"Mm," Irene agreed, mind already spinning. She followed Molly's line of sight and found it resting on a silver necklace in the shape of some sort of flower. It was delicate and simple, but it'd stand out if worn over something plain, black perhaps. "Do you like that one?"

Molly blushed ferociously. "N-no. Just looking."

"It's lovely."

"And expensive."

"Lovely things often are." Irene took a chance and let her cheek dip onto the top of Molly's head, pulling her closer. "Apart from you. You're pretty much free."

Molly laughed, her nose wrinkling as she giggled. Later, Irene got further with her than she had in a long time. Molly wasn't totally inexperienced, and she was reasonably willing. It wasn't unpleasant, Irene reflected the next day, when she left early and slipped into the jewellery shop as it opened. Physical wasn't the only part of it though; Molly wasn't the kind of person to pin every aspect of love on sex. She was too idealistic for that.

She'd got Molly to trust her. She just needed her to fall in love.

The man behind the counter said the flower on the necklace was a sweet pea.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	5. Phase 4

"Open it," Irene said quietly. The two of them were sitting by the tiny plastic tree they'd bought together for the living room, surrounded by bits of wrapping paper. Molly had given Irene a bottle of good-quality red wine and a pair of tin earrings with doves on them – 'I looked it up, your name means peace'. Irene hated them, but was in the process of putting them in as Molly reached for her own present. She'd already said they were 'sweet'. Later she would say they were 'lovely'. And Molly would kiss her, because she always did when Irene said she'd done something right.

"A box," Molly said to herself, giggling like a young girl. "What's in the box…"

Irene waited. Molly let out a little squeak.

"You remembered!"

The silver sweet-pea necklace dangled from her fingers like a cobweb of delicate chain. Irene shuffled closer. "Do you like it?"

"I…I can't believe you remembered – that was _weeks_ ago."

"But you do like it?"

Molly grinned, and, dropping the necklace gently in its box, reached forwards and wrapped her arms around Irene's neck and shoulders, kissing her ear. "I _love_ it."

Irene put her arms around Molly's lower back, feeling her spine through her scruffy pyjamas. "I love you."

If she'd said it at another time Molly might have been taken aback. But it was Christmas; Molly was a romantic, and she was flushed and pleased at the thought Irene had bought her something she knew she liked. The time was perfect, even if it was so close to their first 'accidental' meeting. The snow on the windows was an added bonus.

"I love you too."

Irene smiled as Molly kissed her shoulder, her chin, her collarbones, triumphant.

* * *

New Year rolled around in a blur of black ice and road accidents, but Irene and Molly stayed away from it all; Irene because she didn't have anyone to visit and Molly because Irene made her stay with her.

It was a part of her carefully planned revenge; isolation. Molly didn't have a wide social group, but she did have a few friends, a few work colleagues, scattered here and there. Irene didn't want them – especially the ones associated with Sherlock Holmes – anywhere near her. The social period was her most dangerous time, and as soon as she saw Molly going through to her bedroom to get her bag, dressed in her smart black dress and heels, she snapped to attention, put down her wine glass, and got to her feet.

"Where are you going?"

Molly froze in the process of slinging her bag over her shoulder and blinked at Irene, who was blocking the doorway by leaning against it, arms crossed. Even in heels, Molly was shorter than she was.

"I'm just…just going out." She swallowed; Irene watched her throat bob. "It's on the calendar, I wrote it down."

"Who with?"

"Friends. Just friends."

"Don't go out with them. Stay here."

Molly blinked again, but didn't put her bag down. Her lips pressed together. "I can go out when I like."

"You don't want to go out with them. You want to stay with me."

"No, I d-don't…"

"You don't want to stay with me?"

Molly flushed. "That wasn't what I meant! I meant…I meant, I don't want to stay tonight." Already she was blinking away tears. Irene watched one of them slide down her cheek and gritted her teeth, steeling herself. This was always going to be the make-or-break. Molly might walk away. But their whole relationship was a game, make-believe, and Irene had a firm hold of the corners of Molly's world. All she had to do was bring them together.

"Just call them and say you can't go."

"But I can go!" Molly protested; she looked an inch away from stamping her foot in frustration. "Stop this!"

"I'm not doing anything, _you're _the one wanting to ruin our New Year's Eve."

"But we didn't _arrange_ anything!

When Irene remained silent Molly gave a frustrated growl and tried to push past her. Irene blocked her easily, and when she tried to dodge around Irene got a tight grip on her shoulders – not too tight, not enough to bruise – and held her, kicking and squirming.

"Let go, let go!"

"I only want to spend time with you…"

"Let go!" Molly suddenly stopped kicking and looked into Irene's face instead. Her lips and chin were trembling, the tears coming more freely, running down her chin alongside snot and god knew what else. "You're scaring me."

Irene, resisting the urge to screw up her mouth in distaste, arranged her face into something loose and upset, forcing her mouth to lengthen, her eyes to soften. She let her grip slacken.

"God, I'm sorry."

Molly wrenched away from her and backed against the wall. Irene knew she could be fiery; she knew she'd made her angry and distressed, and she knew Molly might be strong enough to get out of the situation. But she had one advantage; Molly loved her.

"I'm so, so sorry."

Molly began to sob, scrubbing at her face with her fists, chest heaving, until Irene came and put her arms around her. At first she put up a fight, pushing outward with her elbows, but eventually she gave up and rested her head on Irene's shoulder.

"You _scared_ me, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I know, I've been…I'm sorry, I'm just tired. It won't happen again."

Molly sniffed. "It'd better not."

"I'm sorry. I love you. Go out, if you're going out."

"I don't want to."

Irene, sure that Molly couldn't see her with her face buried in her shoulder, allowed herself a smile, although her voice remained low and trembling with 'remorse'. "Come on, sweet pea. It's alright."

Molly's Christmas present was lopsided by the time Irene got the both of them to their feet, and she gently reached out and straightened it before setting about making a cup of hot chocolate the way Molly liked it, with marshmallows and plenty of powder. Molly sat with her legs pulled up into her chest the whole time, eyes red, but when Irene sat next to her she accepted the drink with nothing more than a sigh.

* * *

Irene made sure to wait two weeks before she began to take things up another notch. It was like cooking a delicate soufflé; she had all her basic ingredients, but now she had to bake them to perfection. And once she had the finished product, she could pound the lot into a hopeless mess in her own time.

Two weeks after New Year, Molly dropped a plate and it broke. Irene, instead of laughing about it with her, only acted irritated. She threw her weight around more when Molly was late back from work, enough to put her on her toes, make her second-guess every move. Molly was the sort of person to avoid rather than confront conflict, and that made it easier, but Irene was careful not to do anything drastic without a significant enough trigger.

This came in the form of the lamp Irene had brought over from her own flat a couple of months ago, which now sat on her bedside. Molly, as she pulled off her t-shirt one night, brushed it with an elbow and knocked it to the carpet, where the shade promptly snapped off and the bulb shattered.

"Damn," Molly muttered, already bending to pick it up. "I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry…"

"God, you're stupid," Irene snapped, putting down her book and sliding out of bed. She made no move to help Molly pick up the broken glass, instead barging her to the side to pick up the lamp, checking to see if it was repairable. Probably not. She'd never been that fond of it, but she had to make Molly believe that she was. "I've had this for years, and now look what you've done, you clumsy bitch!"

Molly's cheeks went red, but she stood up and faced Irene. "I don't like the way you're speaking to me!"

"It's only what's true!"

Molly faltered, blinked, and pulled herself together. "It's not true! I don't know what's gotten into you, but this is my flat and I can tell you to go whenever I want, so have a bit of respect!"

Irene threw the lamp on the bed and reached for a lump of clothes. "Fine. I'll go."

A small 'oh' of surprise escaped Molly as Irene found a bag and began stuffing random articles into it. Irene was relentless, using the surprise to her advantage.

"I gave up all sorts for you, because of you! I don't have anywhere to go, my flat's miles away, but fine, I'll go…"

"Irene…"

"No, you want me to go."

"I don't." Molly reached for Irene's arm and held it gently. "Please, I'm sorry. I just, I didn't like the way you were speaking. It was…rude…"

Irene sighed and let the bag slip from her hands. "I'm sorry, sweet pea. I love you. I don't want to go." She put rubbed a hand through her hair and sniffed. "I've just been stressed out lately. Come here."

She pulled Molly close to her and held her. Molly let her.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	6. Error

Irene made life into a triangle, like the set of three arrows that were always painted on the side of recycling bins. She would be irritable, then angry, then sorry. Tension, fear, confusion. Over and over the cycle occurred and every time they reached the most dangerous part – anger – she would feel the thrill of adrenaline that came when a game reached its key point. The satisfied victory of each battle was nothing in comparison.

With each win, Molly grew a little quieter, a little more compliant. Soon Irene had control of almost every aspect of their domestic life, from finances to the calendar to who got to use the bathroom first in the mornings. Whenever she gave an inch Molly would be so grateful she looked like she might burst, and whenever Irene cracked down she was obeyed.

She liked being obeyed. Part of her job, part of the pretence. But being in control was real.

The effects of it were already beginning to show on Molly; her face was pinched and pale, rarely flushing with the pleasure she'd shown at seeing Irene at the beginning of her relationship. She moved in a hunched, quiet fashion, stuttered more often – especially when Irene called her names for doing so. She stopped going out unless Irene was with her. She ignored phone calls, emails, letters. She was scared.

There was only one aspect she remained in control of. Irene had let her think she was free in regard to her work only because she needed the leeway to take things to the next level. To do what she'd intended to do all along; take the last of Molly's spirit in both her hands and snap it like a twig. Molly had to learn that work was a privilege, not a right. That would take more than a few harsh words.

"Where are you going?"

Molly whipped round, automatically pulling her bag up to her body, as if she could hide behind it. "I…I thought you were still asleep!"

"Sneaking out, then? Going to try run away from me?"

"N-no, nothing like that. I'm only going to w-w-work."

"You'll go when I say you can."

"But I'll be l-late…"

Irene shrugged, although she was watching Molly's every move so closely it was making her eyes ache. "That's not my problem."

"I can't b-be late. Please. I'll be back early, I promise, I'll ring you as s-soon as I'm done."

She made to run toward the door; Irene whipped out an arm and grabbed her wrist, squeezing until she produced a yelp. She'd done it once or twice before; Molly had a bone in her hand that clicked if you pulled it in the right direction. Adrenaline made Irene dizzy as she yanked her in a circle to face her and raised a hand, palm flat, ready to strike.

The hand didn't fall. Molly had her eyes screwed up against the expectation of the blow, head turned to one side and her hair, overgrown, spread over her shoulders. Irene looked at her, took in the familiar details, blinked. She tried to move her hand down – she'd hit people harder for fun, it was no new experience – but her arm remained frozen. Molly was whimpering. She was pathetic, she was annoying.

No matter how much Irene tried to force herself to believe she hated Molly enough to strike her, she couldn't dredge the feelings up from deep enough to follow the slap through. Even though this was her game, this was supposed to be her final step toward winning the game she'd lost before. This girl had cared for, had been cared for, by Sherlock Holmes. Irene was simply transferring the game to her.

It suddenly sounded childish, idiotic. She was taking it out on Molly, like a playground bully who, shouted at by their mother, goes into school and calls the first kid they meet a loser.

Her hand dropped to her side and her other slackened, fingernails slipping away one by one until Molly's wrist was free, covered in crescent-moon indentations.

"Go."

Molly didn't even look at her as she scooted out the door. Irene went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of whiskey, threw it down the sink, and brewed a coffee so strong it made her teeth stand on end. She needed to think.

Thinking wasn't difficult; once she pried open the hatch that she'd been constantly nailing and re-nailing down the past months, concepts and memories came thick and fast. The thought that, no matter how many times Irene had told herself she could quit Molly like a drug, she'd found it enormously difficult to do so.

She tried to rationalise it out; she'd always liked girls, she'd always liked being in control. Molly was a girl, she was easy to control, it was natural that she should start feeling attached. Just as Molly had been attracted to her because Irene had seemed like everything she wanted. It cut both ways. Molly was entertaining, a game to be played and won and dropped to the floor. All Irene wanted to do was extend that game a little longer, surely.

That wasn't it, and she knew it. She brewed another cup of coffee and added so much sugar it was undrinkable. She paced the floor. She tried knocking over a couple of Molly's pictures, but it didn't make her feel any better.

She'd focused so hard on making Molly hers that she couldn't bring herself to break her. Sherlock was only a memory; there was nothing of him left. And that made her plan useless, it made the entire past months useless. She hated Sherlock Holmes, but she couldn't hate him enough to hurt Molly, who had been sweet and fluttery and compliant and desperate. Irene had convinced herself she couldn't stand her, but that wasn't true. She didn't love her like she said she had, but she didn't hate her.

There wasn't enough malice in her. It made her feel ashamed and stupid to admit it, even to herself in the empty flat, but she wasn't that hateful.

When Irene glanced at a clock she saw it was just after twelve. She had five or six hours before Molly got back. She tried to eat but the food tasted worse than cardboard; she could feel her mouth drying with every bite and gave up.

Molly would be back in five hours. Four. Three. Two.

Irene sat in the flat that wasn't hers, but had started to feel like it was, fingernails grinding into her cheeks, elbows on her knees. Her lips were trembling almost as much as Molly's had been when they'd first met. Realisation after realisation hit her like blows to the chest and stomach; with only two hours left, she was still throbbing with confusion.

She'd spent so much time trying to make Molly hers that she hadn't thought about what she was going to do once she had her.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	7. Abort

Irene found the bin bags underneath the sink and threw her clothes into them as quickly as possible, not caring about creasing or snagging anything as she did. She rubbed every inch of her existence from the flat; toothbrush, decorations, olives from the fridge. Molly didn't like them. They'd only started stocking them once Irene had moved in. The cat watched her the whole time, as it had from the very beginning. When he got under her feet Irene made a half-hearted attempt to kick, but he scooted away before she could get her toes into him.

With the last half-hour running through her fingers she found the sweet pea necklace, still in its box, nestled amongst Molly's underwear and drew it out. It seemed heavier than it had when she'd bought it, swinging from her fingers like a rope rather than a cobweb, the silver petals glinting in the light coming through the window.

She took it, telling herself it was a victory token and knowing all along it was more sentiment than anything else. She left the dirty dishes in the sink, the bed unmade, slipped the necklace into her pocket and dragged her three bin bags towards the door. They slid over the carpet with a resigned grating sound.

The door opened with a hollow click. Irene wasn't even sure she'd break Molly's heart, but she'd leave her spirit as much in tact as she could. Because she was weak. Because she was stupid.

Because she'd bought a necklace for a girl and it had meant so much that girl had said she loved her, and believed it.

The door closed. Irene slid her key under the crack and made her way downstairs, kicking and pushing the bags with so little care she heard something inside them break. Sounds seemed distant. The taxi driver looked tired. Tomorrow, she would transfer her accounts back to Molly's name. She would pack the rest of her things, and she would book a ticket. She would leave. She should have done it months ago. She should never have come back.

They passed by the hospital and slowed in the traffic. Irene leaned her head against the tinted window and squinted. St Bart's pavement sent a judder of memory through her, although they'd cleaned it up nicely since she'd seen the picture in the newspaper.

Her watch told her it was five o'clock. The traffic inched on. The entrance was less than five feet away from her and she watched it, knowing that, any second, Molly would come out, and Molly would not see her, because Irene didn't want her to, and the taxis darkened windows looked the same as any other.

A man came and stood by the entrance, looking at his watch every now and then. Irene knew him; the silver-haired detective, more grey now, going white at the very base of his sideburns. She didn't bother trying to hide her face; he wouldn't be able to see her.

A crowd of leaving workers bustled away. The traffic jam began, slowly but surely, to unclog, like honey running off a spoon. And then Molly, her bag hooked over her shoulder and her hair in a slapdash bun, ran out. The man with the grey hair put a hand out to her before she could walk past him. Molly turned. She didn't look surprised; she'd been expecting him, then. If Irene had still cared, she would have wanted to know why Molly was seeing him, how she dared.

She didn't care, Irene told herself. She couldn't.

The policeman said something. Molly's face crumpled as she reached her hand, the one Irene had squeezed so brutally less than ten hours ago, toward him. She began to cry, and he let her.

The traffic burst open like a split balloon. In a second the taxi had passed by the hospital and they were out into the open roads, whizzing past green lights and late-afternoon shoppers, schoolchildren and pushchairs. The taxi driver still looked tired. Irene continued to stare blankly out of the window, the box with the necklace inside it clasped between her fingers, like a bird in a cage.

* * *

**I know there were so many different ways of ending this, and I had some brilliant ideas from people in reviews, so I hope this lives up to expectation. I'd wanted to do a Molly/Irene story for ages, but I'd never found the chance and Let's Write was the perfect opportunity. It seems like I'm writing all the time these days; thank you so much to everyone who encourages me!**

**The end. **


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